Lucien stopped dead in the middle of the dirt road, boots kicking up a small cloud that hung lazy in the cooling air.
The follower stepped out from the treeline like he'd been waiting for an invitation that never came.
One of the count's scribes—thin shoulders, ink-stained fingers, the same guy who'd been scribbling notes back at the garrison.
Except now his eyes carried a faint pink-silver glow that didn't belong on a human face. It flickered weak, like a bad battery trying to stay lit.
"You woke something you shouldn't have," the man growled, voice distorted, cracking at the edges like it was being pulled through rusty pipes.
The air smelled of dry leaves and that same metallic tang from the burned caravan, only thicker now, like someone had poured old oil over hot metal.
Nyx stayed invisible on Lucien's shoulder, her tail flicking once against his neck, warm fur brushing skin.
Elara's hand hovered near her sword but didn't draw.
Mira had already melted back into the shadows a few paces behind, new bow half-raised.
Lucien tilted his head, purple-pink hair shifting in the breeze, the golden scar over his left eyebrow itching sharp. "Cute. You followed us all this way just to deliver bad poetry?"
The scribe lunged without another word, hands twisting with corrupted mana that smelled like spoiled fruit left too long in the sun.
A sloppy wave of pink-silver energy shot forward, trying to wrap around Lucien's chest like cheap chains.
Lucien didn't dodge far.
The Greed Bloodline uncoiled behind his ribs, hungry and bored at the same time.
He let the attack hit his palm, felt the corrupted mana flood in—bitter, stolen, tasting like power that had been locked away and gone sour.
The Linhagem sucked it down, multiplied it clean on the way through, turning rot into something sharp and endless that buzzed under his skin.
Nyx dropped her invisibility with a bright laugh, purple-pink flames blooming around the scribe in a swirling cage.
The illusions pressed in tight, not burning, just confusing the air until the man staggered, eyes wide, the faint glow in them flickering harder.
Elara stepped forward once, sword still sheathed, watching with that quiet fire in her green eyes. "He wasn't just a scribe."
The fight ended fast and ugly.
The scribe dropped to his knees, breathing ragged, the pink-silver leaking out of him like bad dye running in rain.
Lucien absorbed the last threads, the power settling warm and heavy in his core.
No big explosion. No dramatic roar. Just the quiet click of another piece swallowed whole.
They dragged the unconscious body back to the shack in silence, the road dust sticking to sweat on their necks.
Inside, the lantern light made the small space feel even smaller.
The scribe lay on the straw mattress, chest rising slow, the glow gone from his eyes now, just normal tired brown staring at nothing.
Mira crouched beside him, turning the man's hand over.
A plain silver ring sat on his middle finger, the band etched with faint marks that looked too old for a simple scribe.
"This was the merchants' contact inside the garrison. The one who moved secrets for coin. Someone's been planting the wrong kind of seeds out here."
The air in the shack smelled of damp straw, old ink from the man's clothes, and the faint sweet-ozone Nyx always carried.
Elara poured water from a cracked jug into a cup, her movements tight, shoulders still carrying the tension from the road.
Nyx shifted human and dropped onto the edge of the table, legs swinging, tail curling lazy around the leg.
Lucien leaned against the wall, arms crossed, feeling the new power from the absorbed mana still buzzing faint under his skin.
Random thought hit him sideways—back in São Paulo he'd deal with office politics and passive-aggressive emails.
Here the politics came with corrupted eyes and rings that smelled like old graves.
They split a bottle of wine Lucien had lifted from the count's stores during the audience, the liquid dark and cheap, tasting like fermented regret with a decent kick.
Nyx took the first swig straight from the bottle, then passed it to Lucien, her head ending up in his lap as she stretched out.
Elara settled against his other side, cheek resting on his shoulder, her hair tickling his neck.
Mira stayed on the floor near the scribe, sharpening arrows with slow scrapes that filled the quiet spaces between sips.
"This is growing bigger than the village," Mira said low, not looking up from the arrowhead.
The stone scraped again, steady. "Caravans, scribes with weird eyes, banners changing color. Feels like the whole kingdom's starting to notice the dirt changing hands."
Lucien took a long pull from the bottle, the wine burning warm down his throat. "Good. The bigger it gets, the more there is to steal."
Nyx laughed soft against his thigh, one claw tracing idle circles on his knee.
Elara's hand found his under the table, fingers lacing loose but tight enough to say she wasn't letting go anytime soon.
Mira finally looked up, the new respect in her eyes mixed with that road-hard edge that still hadn't fully softened.
The scribe stirred suddenly on the mattress, eyes fluttering open, normal now, no pink-silver glow.
He blinked slow, confusion thick on his face, then focused on Lucien. His voice came out hoarse, cracked like he'd been shouting for hours.
"The count isn't the only one who knows. There's an elder in the capital of the kingdom… he dreamed of purple hair. Said the greed was waking up again. Said it would eat everything if nobody stopped it."
The words hung there, heavy in the small shack.
The lantern flame dipped once, throwing long shadows across the sagging roof.
The scribe's breathing stayed ragged, fingers twitching against the straw like he was still trying to hold onto whatever had ridden him on the road.
Lucien set the wine bottle down, the glass clinking soft against the table.
The Greed stirred warmer in his chest, not loud, just interested, already calculating how many more pieces were moving on the board he hadn't seen yet.
Nyx sat up slow, ears perked, golden eyes narrowing at the scribe.
Elara's grip tightened on Lucien's hand.
Mira's sharpening stone paused mid-stroke, the arrow half-finished in her lap.
The night pressed against the crooked walls, thick with the smell of cheap wine, damp straw, and the faint metallic tang of whatever bigger game had just poked its head through the door.
Lucien's mouth curved that crooked half-smile anyway, the golden scar itching sharper now, like the Bloodline was laughing at the warning.
Some followers brought knives.
Others brought dreams from the capital and didn't realize they were handing over the map.
He leaned back against the wall, the straw creaking under him, and let the new information settle.
The scribe watched him with wide eyes, waiting for whatever came next.
The girls stayed close, the bond between the four of them humming quiet but steady in the warm air.
The wine bottle sat half-empty on the table. The lantern kept burning low.
Outside, the village slept uneasy but not scared, the wheat fields rustling in the dark like they knew whose side they were on.
Lucien exhaled through his nose, the taste of the wine still bitter on his tongue.
An elder in the capital dreaming of purple hair.
Cute.
He'd make sure the dream came true.
The scribe's breathing hitched once, then steadied, the man too tired or too smart to say anything more right now.
Nyx's tail flicked once, brushing Lucien's leg.
Elara's shoulder stayed pressed against his.
Mira went back to sharpening the arrow, the scrape of stone on metal filling the small space again.
The night kept breathing outside, thick and patient, while the System stayed quiet in the corner of Lucien's vision, waiting for dawn and whatever Tier 2 decided to bring with it.
He closed his eyes for half a second, the golden scar still itching, the Greed purring low and satisfied.
Some warnings came with glowing eyes and stolen power.
Others came with dreams from far away and a man who used to be just a scribe.
Lucien smiled small in the dark, the kind of smile that started back when his boss sent 2 a.m. emails and never learned better.
The bottle of wine sat there, half-empty, the lantern flame flickering like it knew the real game was just getting started.
He took another sip anyway.
Tasted like profit.
The scribe's eyes stayed open, watching the ceiling, while the four of them sat in the warm quiet of the shack, the road dust still clinging to their boots and the scent of burned caravan lingering faint on the night air.
Tomorrow was going to be loud.
Lucien leaned his head back against the wall, purple-pink hair catching the last of the lantern light, and let the Greed settle in for the long wait.
The night kept pressing in, warm and thick, full of whatever came next.
He didn't mind.
He was already collecting it.